We were in a hurry, ok?
by drcalvin
Summary: What possible reason could Germany, Italy and Italy have to show up during a meeting, wearing each others clothes? Comedy-fic


That North Italy sometimes showed up wearing Germany's shirts, or even his trousers was nothing unusual. All the gathered nations knew how clumsy Veneziano could be. They knew that, although their formal allegiance had ended with the war, Germany still spent a lot of time taking care of the northern half of the Italian peninsula.

No, that was normal. Hardly worth raising an eyebrow at. And if South and North Italy switched clothes with each other? Why, nearly none of the nations noticed. France and Spain (who, for reasons that were more alike than they would care to admit, did) just shrugged and assumed that the brothers had either overslept or not bothered to sort their laundry properly.

What did, however, make Spain snort his coffee up the nose and gave France an acute case of nosebleed, was when South Italy bent down to retrieve his pen. Because this time his shirt slid up to reveal a familiar, and far too large, tank-top.

Suddenly, the two nations lost what little interest they had in America's babble about how his friends had warned him about terrorists from outer space and began paying extremely close attention to the Italy brothers and Germany.

Their efforts did not long go unrewarded. When America (as usual) trailed off into describing how he would be The Hero and Prevail Against the Andromedans, Germany rose to join England in making him shut up. Several things became obvious at once:

1) Germany's trousers were not, in fact, matched with his suit jacket. They seemed to be a more casual pair.

2) His belt seemed pulled a bit tight and, considering that it was a black snake-skin belt with a Coliseum buckle, the logical conclusion was that this might not actually be his belt at all.

Two pair of eyes swivelled as one to the happily snoozing North Italy. Germany's shirt, check. Germany's trousers...?

While several other nations joined the argument at the head of the table (it had by now degraded into a fight about whether elves or aliens were the most trustworthy allies one could have) Spain threw a pen at Prussia's head.

The pale not-quite-nation-of-uncertain-name-these-days was lying on a couch behind Germany. He looked utterly bored. When everyone had started yelling, Prussia (for a lack of alternate names that did not make him threaten grievous bodily harm) had turned to the meeting table with an interested grin, only to roll his eyes as Germany called for order with increasing volume.

Prussia was now doodling crying Russias on the wall, ignoring the nervous looks the Baltic nations threw him and how they all (with various amounts of trembling involved) made Russia's attention turn onto themselves, whenever it looked like he might look towards Germany and Prussia.

When the pen smacked into Prussia, he stopped his artistic endeavour and glared at Spain. As the other nation, through an impressive show of pantomimes (helped by France mouthing "Pants! Pants! Pants!" at them both) showed Prussia what he wanted him to do, the East-German man shrugged, rose and went over to North Italy.

"Veveveeeee~!"

Venezianos pitiful cries as he was unceremoniously pulled from his slumber and hoisted upside down penetrated even America and England's battle-drunk minds.

France jumped onto the table and cackled in triumph.

"Germany's pants!" he cried. He held out both hands, as if he wanted to lay the too-large suit trousers hanging loosely on the Italian's frame in front of the gathered nations as a sacrifice to virtues despoiled.

Spain twitched and gibbered, while pointing a shaking finger at the now slightly visible tomato-patterned boxers. "Ro- Ro- Romano's underwear!"

Prussia looked down at his wailing captive, then at Romano who had jumped over the table and was trying to choke Spain. He began to smirk in a way that reminded many of the gathered nations of just how fond the albino had been when of to invading vital regions.

South Italy's little rage-attack, by the by, had the unfortunate side-effected of making his overshirt flutter slightly. Not much, but just enough to reveal the tank-top, and what looked suspiciously like the top edge of a pair of black-yellow-red pair of boxers, before all nations.

Prussia then gave his brother a speculative glance.

"Sooo..." he began, smirking when Germany turned flaming red and backed away from the table and the suddenly very many, very curious eyes.

"This must be why you promised to begin producing Trabants again, if I only spent last night at Austria's?"


End file.
